


You've Earned It

by finefeatheredfriend



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Charles protects Arthur, Fed up Charles, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tired Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23266984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finefeatheredfriend/pseuds/finefeatheredfriend
Summary: From a tumblr request: Charles!Reader realizing how much Arthur does for the camp, and how little he appreciation he gets for it
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 89





	You've Earned It

**Author's Note:**

> If you prefer Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith to Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, just skip the section between the asterisks

There was a pattern to it, you realized, your keen eyes watching the sweating man pace through the camp. It was a daily routine with little variation in its steps, an exhaustive dance of hard labor. First the wood. Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop, his foot against the log, tugging the ax free since his last swing hadn’t been strong enough to cleave it through. Chop. Chop, tug the ax free. A pant. A flick of his hand across his forehead, slinging sweat away. Gather the wood. _Tack, tack, tack, tack,_ the logs tapping together loudly as he stacked them into the carrying sling. A grunt. Arthur would lift the sling, staggering slightly under the weight, his shoulder bowing. A beeline for the fire near Pearson’s cart. The clattering of logs out of the sling, which he flung over his shoulder. A grunt as he slung a bag of corn over his other shoulder, flopped it into place where Pearson could cook it into the stew. A deep breath. Pick up a bucket. Drop the sling off next to the chopping log. Then, a straight line toward the lake.

“Hey Arthur!” Tilly or Karen or sometimes John would call as he passed them, all business.

“Hey there,” but he’d keep going, single-minded. Step into the water, cup his hand, take a drink of it, fill the bucket. A diagonal line back to the chopping block where he’d pick up the axe, slinging it across his back with his free hand. Dump the water into the tin tub for dishes. Set the bucket down. A short jaunt to the domino table. _Rasp, rasp, rasp_ of whetstone against the edge of the axe. A deep inhalation of breath and a mist of sweat again as the afternoon sun beat down on his neck and he brushed the perspiration away. A groan as he stood, stooping to pick up the plates next to the cook fire, dumping them into the dish water on his way to lean the axe against the chopping log. He put his hands on his hips, took a breath, and you thought for a moment that he would stop, but he didn’t.

The day was hot, sweltering, really, and you worried about him as he went about his busy torrent of tasks, ignoring the burning rays of the sun sapping the energy from him. Looking weary, but determined, Arthur made his way past the gambling table where John was polishing his saddle to the hay bales next to John’s tent. He slung one of them up by the twine with a low huff of breath.

Today, like every day, he made his way past the chicken coop, growling under his breath at the cockerel that dared spur at him when he passed, kicking at it as it ruffled its feathers and crowed.

“Easy boy,” murmured gently to Brown Jack, tossing the hay bale down and cutting the twine. Back over to the fire to stack the logs he had dropped off there, Swanson sitting obliviously nearby, staring into the fire fueled by Arthur’s hard work.

“You alright, Arthur?” from a bored-sounding Javier.

“Just fine.”

“Have a seat, English,” from Sean.

“Work to do, Sean. _Know you’ve never heard of it,”_ muttered as he returned to John’s tent, picking up the second haybale. A slow half-trot across the camp to where Kieran was brushing the other group of horses. Arthur dropped the haybale, cutting it open.

“Oh, hey Arthur.”

“O’Driscoll,” growled in a half-serious, half-teasing voice.

Arthur made his way to his tent and you took a relieved breath to see that he was resting.

But no.

“That’s ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty. Hmm, need more of these from the store.” Something hastily scrawled in the ammunition ledger. “And there’s thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Damn.” More scribbling. He looked up, meeting your eye across camp with a small wave. You nodded in response and he went back to work, tallying cartridge boxes and bundles of arrows.

Next he cleaned all the rifles for the guards to use, polishing them until his hands were greasy and red. He began a dash to the waterfront to clean up, thought better of it, picked up a bucket, took it with him, filling it after he had washed his hands so that one trip could serve two functions. He returned the bucket to the clothes-washing tub, dumping the water in.

“Arthur,” Abigail greeted, and he tipped his hat.

“How’s Jack?” he asked, but he was still moving, headed for another task, a work horse if ever there was one.

“He’s good,” Abigail answered, staring after him with a quirked brow.

“Sounds good. I’ll get him another book to read, next time I have a chance,” he answered briefly. Now he stopped at the camp ledger, flipping through it. “Goddammit, Micah, we’re gonna need more than a fifteen cent raccoon carcass per week, you lazy sack of shit!” Micah scowled and disappeared into the trees next to the camp, fiddling with his knife like a jackanapes.

“Now, don’t go stirring up shit, Arthur,” Dutch mumbled condescendingly, not looking up from the book he was reading. Snorting and rolling his eyes, Arthur made a lap back to the cook fire, peering hopefully into the stew pot, but it was already empty from the lunch rush of hungry folks filling their stew bowls. With a scowl, he picked the heavy thing up, lugging it to Pearson’s cart.

“Back in a bit,” he said to no one in particular, and you knew this was all part of his routine as well. Keep the fires fed, care for the horses, refill the water, check inventory, make sure things were ready to clean dishes and clothing, and lastly, keep the people fed. He was going hunting.

Not alone. Not this time. Worry filled you as you observed him, grabbing rifle cartridges, small game arrows and tightening the girth of his saddle after he had slung his saddlebags across his horse’s rump. Arthur wasn’t sweating anymore. His face was red and his eyes were partly squinted, even beneath the shade of his hat. He was over-heated and tired. He needed rest. He needed rest and no one else had even bothered to mention it, you thought with a sudden flare of fury, staring around at where the other camp members were lazing about.

You couldn’t blame them at the moment. The noon sun was still blazing overhead. No one should be working right now, least of all Arthur. But off he went, slinging himself onto his horse on his second try, giving a weary,

“Come on, boah,” to his horse.

“Arthur,” you called, “wait up.”

“Oh, hey Charles,” he slurred.

“You sure you want to be going out right now? You need to rest up.”

“’M fine,” he insisted and you knew better than to argue with the stubborn outlaw.

“Alright then, I’ll come with you.” He sighed.

“No need, just going out for some rabbit.”

“Arthur.” He met your eyes. “I’m coming with you. Come on. I know a good place.” You knew a good place alright, a place where you could set some snares and then make him rest. There was a small, cold creek that ran not quite a half mile away and near it was a rabbit warren. You lead the way, but you kept looking over your shoulder at him, worried about the sluggish way he sat in his saddle, at the way his face stayed pink even as you rode on shaded deer trails. “You okay, Arthur?” you called.

“Fine. Why?”

“Just checking,” you murmured. Usually when you went out with Arthur, he talked your ear off, excited to have someone to talk to who didn’t interrupt him or try to one up him with stories of their own. Usually he got off his chest whatever slight or irritation happened to be bothering him, and you would listen, content to be his quiet friend, the patient companion he needed. But he wasn’t talking now, and you worried. You were a man of few words and trying to force yourself to make idle conversation was hard for you. Nevertheless, you tried. “You see that meteor shower last night? It was something.”

“Hmm,” was the only response you got. You rode on in silence after that.

“Something bothering you, Arthur?” you asked a few minutes later. You heard him scowl.

“What’s with the questions, Charles? You’re always tellin’ me to shut the hell up when we’re huntin’.”

“Alright,” you said, a little defensively. He clearly didn’t feel well. There was no other way he would be so terse with you, of all people. He was rude to just about everyone when he was feeling ornery, but never you. “Here we are,” you said at last. There were numerous little holes and crevasses beneath a huge oak tree, signs of a covey of rabbits. “Best leave our horses here,” you suggested, hitching Taima to a low hanging branch. Arthur complied, climbing down off his own mount and pulling his bow out. “No need,” you told him, pulling some snares from your saddle bags. “No reason you should have to work so hard, Arthur,” you went on in a soft voice. He stared at you for a minute, his lip curling slightly, but he returned the bow to his saddle.

“So what the hell are we doin’ out here?” he asked you in a tired voice, still looking sickly from too much time spent working hard in the sun.

“Resting,” you told him bluntly. You set the snares and then led the way to the creek. “Come on, Arthur. This way.” You came to the bubbling, babbling brook and took a deep breath. You weren’t overly fond of this area of the country, but little spots like this made it worthwhile. The creek was entirely protected from sunlight by huge sycamores and oak trees, their branches forming a thick canopy above you. The peaceful light in the cool area was beautiful to see as damselflies with metallic turquoise bodies and dark ebony wings fluttered around. Frogs sang all around and a mockingbird added its own tune from somewhere nearby. Chickadees and warblers joined in. You took a deep breath. It was peaceful. You heard Arthur stumbling down behind you.

“I shtill don’t shhhee why it’sshhh sshho important th’t we come down he– ” His slurred, mumbling words cut off abruptly as he fell forward, losing his footing and collapsing face-first in the mud.

“Arthur!” You pulled his torso into your lap, slapping the back of your hand against his stubbled cheek. “Arthur, hey, wake up.” He was out cold, still not sweating. With a grunt of effort, you tossed him over your shoulder, carrying him down to the bank of the cool stream. You stripped his clothes from him, folding them quickly and tossing them onto his boots and hat so they wouldn’t get wet or washed downstream. You used his bandana to wring water over his chest, his armpits, his groin. Pulling his legs into the creek, you pulled all but your breeks off, supporting his weight as you let the water cool his body.

Drowsily, Arthur came back to his senses.

“Huh?” he asked, his arm slung over your shoulders, your arms around his chest to support him as you treaded water easily.

“You’re awake,” you commented, relieved.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed, blinking away exhaustion as he realized his state of undress and paddled backwards out of your grip.

“Heat exhaustion,” you explained to prevent yourself from catching a fist to the jaw for stripping him without his consent. “You passed out.”

_“Shit.”_ Arthur swam over to a large boulder, pulling himself up onto it. Cupping his big hands, he greedily gulped cold water from the stream, pouring it over his back and letting the gentle breeze cool it on his skin. Sheepishly, Arthur looked over at you. “Thanks, Charles.”

“Don’t mention it,” you said softly, paddling on your back with lazy motions of your big arms. You stared up at the canopy above and took a deep breath, the water gently rolling invisible fingers of current through your long hair. You shook your head beneath the water, letting your hair flow around you like a crown of raven gossamer.

“Reckon I overdid it,” Arthur admitted a few moments later, slipping back into the water.

“You always do, Arthur,” you admonished him, swimming back upright now so that you could meet his eyes. You slicked your hair back, staring daggers at him. You hated how little he or anyone else cared about his well-being. You knew the man had depths of self-loathing the likes of which you could hardly imagine, but for _no one_ in camp, not even Marston or Dutch to realize how hard he pushed himself, how much he tried to be everything for everyone, never allowing himself a moment to just be himself…it infuriated you. “I want you to know that I see you,” you told him softly. “I see the work you do. I see how hard you try. It’s appreciated, Arthur, even if no one says it. They don’t understand how much you do around here. Hell, I don’t even think _you_ realize how much you do. Look at you, you nearly worked yourself to death today because you felt you had to. But you don’t, Arthur. You can rest. Just…rest for a bit.”

“We oughta get back,” he began dismissively.

_“No,”_ you insisted, grabbing his hand before he left the creek. He turned and looked at you uncertainly, seeing the earnestness in your gaze.

“Alright,” he mumbled, going red in the cheeks. “Alright, Charles. I’ll rest. And…thank you. I don’t do it for the praise, but…it’s surely nice to hear it.”

***************************************

You tugged him closer, your breath going a little ragged, more emotion than you’d felt in weeks pouring through you. You put a hand on his jaw and tugged him toward you, kissing him lightly on the forehead. It wasn’t the first time you had shown him affection, but the hectic nature of camp life had kept either of you from moments like this. Moments you both needed.

“Well then,” you said in a soft voice, “I saw you chop that wood.” You grabbed one of his hands and massaged up the arm to his shoulder. “I saw you stack it.” You turned him so you could dig your fingers into his shoulder muscles, feeling little pops and crackles beneath your fingers. Arthur let loose a small moan of pleasure. “I saw you move the sacks of corn.” You massaged down his back, kissing the back of his neck. “I saw you gathering water for cleaning.” You cupped your hands and poured water through his hair, massaging his scalp with gentle scratches of your dull fingernails. “I saw you tallying supplies.” You ran your hand across his belly, pulling him close to your front. “I see you, Arthur.”

“Thank you, Charles,” he murmured, relaxing against you.

“Of course.” You stayed like that in the cool water until evening began to fall.

***************************************

Reluctantly, you both crawled out of the stream and air dried before tugging your clothing back on. You checked the snares and saw with a small smirk that you had caught five rabbits.

“More than enough for dinner,” you commented.

“Thank Christ. I’m starving.” You rode back in companionable silence, Arthur looking much better, and seeming in a considerably better mood. You turned into camp, greeted by Lenny. Slinging yourself off Taima, you tossed the rabbits wordlessly to Pearson. Behind you, Arthur was hitching your horses, but already at least three people were headed toward him, all no doubt with some task or other they felt he owed them.

“Mr. Morgan,” Miss Grimshaw exclaimed upon seeing him. “When are you going to fix that wagon wheel? It’s been broken for nearly a week and I need you to go into town and fetch supplies. You’ve known about it, but you haven’t fixed it. And just look at your hair! When’s the last time you brushed that rat’s nest, Arthur?” she scolded. The weary look crept back over his features.

“I’ll get to it tomorrow mornin’, Miss Grimshaw,” he promised.

“Did you get a chance to get any coyote hides so I can make that new satchel, Arthur?” John asked, sauntering past.

“Oh, uh, not today, Marston, but, I, I’ll go lookin’ for one tomorrow.”

“Arthur!” Dutch hollered and that’s when you lost your temper.

_“Enough!”_ you shouted and every one of the assembled gang members stared at you wide-eyed, a few with open mouths as well. You were breathing hard. It wasn’t often you lost your temper, but when you did you knew you had a tendency to overdo it. You met Arthur’s eyes to calm yourself. “Enough,” you said in a quiet tone. “Let the man rest. Can’t you all see what he’s been doing around here? Pearson, why do you think you always have the corn next to your work station? Miss Grimshaw, where do you think the water for laundry and dishes comes from? I’ll fix the wagon wheel tomorrow morning. Marston, go shoot your own goddamn coyote if you need the pelt so bad. And _you,”_ you continued, whirling on Dutch.

“You’re going to want to watch how the end of that sentence is spoken, Charles,” he warned in his odd, hoarse voice, plucking his cigar from his mouth with an insulted flare of his over-jeweled hand.

“And you’re going to want to watch how you speak to Arthur, Dutch,” you hissed, running a thumb over one of your throwing knifes. There was a tense silence and then Uncle barked a laugh.

“Well, wind him up and turn him loose, boys!” The old man cackled. “He’s right, leave poor Arthur alone. Come ‘ere, son, have a drink. Now go on, all of you, before Charles here skins you alive.” You rolled your eyes at his savage insinuation of your character, but the camp relaxed and Arthur shot you a look of mingled amusement and gratitude.

“Thanks, Charles.”

“Rest up, Arthur,” you said simply. “You’ve earned it.”


End file.
